


HMS Avenger

by pineapplesquid



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Navy, Bickering, Book 1: Master and Commander, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplesquid/pseuds/pineapplesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical AU--Captain Steve Rogers has quite a reputation in the Royal Navy as a brave and determined officer.  Newly promoted to the position of Commander, he finds that not only must he fight the French, but also a growing attraction to his brilliant but insubordinate first lieutenant.  Can he still command a taut ship while himself breaking the Articles of War?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Command

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Avengers fic, but it owes a very great deal to the Aubrey/Maturin series by Patrick O'Brian. Much of the format, particularly of the first chapter, is heavily inspired by Master and Commander. The fic will diverge more from that series as it continues. 
> 
> No warnings for now, but there may be violence in future chapters. Also, I cannot promise frequent or rapid updates.

He put his hand once again briefly to his inner pocket, where a folded sheet crinkled. The soft noise, combined with the still unfamiliar weight of the epaulette on his shoulder, gave him the impetus to take the last few steps and hail a boat. “ _HMS Avenger,”_ he told the man as he handed him a  few coins, settling into the bow to study her as they approached. As they rounded the _Atalanta_ she came into view; hull low compared to the frigates surrounding her, two masts joining the forest of the harbor. Not large, perhaps, but enough to delight Steven Roger’s heart, which swelled with a possessiveness he had never expected. She was more than he would have dared hope for in his first command; a trim brig, faster than many of her class, and weatherly. More to the point, he could now easily make out the nine starboard gunports (mirrored on the port side), behind which lay her long 9-pounders. One of the few in her class not to have been re-fitted with 32-pounder carronades, she commanded less firepower, but much greater range and elegance in battle.

Steve’s keen eye continued scanning the _Avenger_ as they approached her. He knew full well that the two hours warning he had given them of his coming aboard had not been enough; but the strictures to “lose not a minute!” in the Admiral’s note had been even more insistent than the usual tone of naval correspondence, suggesting a true urgency to his orders. While he had no desire for his first impression to be of an unreasonable captain, the needs of the service must always come first. He was, in the event, surprised and pleased by the extent of the careful preparations that he could see even from this distance. She did not completely have the veneer of perfection that he would generally expect in a ship receiving a new commander for the first time, but everything was more than shipshape, particularly impressive after the major refit he knew she had just received. She had even had her paintwork touched up, a thin band of scarlet beneath the Nelson checker on her gunports, and fresh gold leaf on the prow.

This ought to have been a comfort and testament to the efficiency of the ship’s company. Instead Steve’s stomach sank. In the short and exceptionally busy time since the letter arrived that morning, the only information he had been able to gather about his command was the name of the first lieutenant. The new, expensive paint and gold leaf only strengthened the worry that had been growing in the past hour. Well, there would be time enough to settle that later.

 As they approached the ship, his heart began to beat a little bit faster. He could tell the moment that his boat was identified by the slight ripple across the deck. As they drew up alongside he could hear the screaming of the bosun’s pipe. He judged the roll and stepped over, grasping the sideropes that the gloved hands of the ship’s boys offered him. Climbing onto the deck, his eyes swept over the men assembled there; the neat red rectangle of the marines, the officers on the quarterdeck, the men on the focsle. One was stepping towards him, the gold lace gleaming against the dark blue of the dress uniform of a lieutenant. He knew what to expect, so it wasn’t the moment of recognition that made him catch his breath; the differences, not the similarities, to the boy he had known, were what shocked him. In his mind had been a lad of thirteen, with unkempt dark hair and impossibly expressive eyes and long limbs that should have been awkward but instead managed an odd grace. While the hair and eyes remained, the twenty years since they had last met had changed everything else; his face was fuller and rougher and his body had finally caught up to itself. The result was a man so attractive that Steve had a moment’s difficulty pulling his eyes away and remembering his next line. “Mr Stark, if you will name the officers to me.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Mr Banner, the master,” was a fairly young, nervous looking man. “Colonel Odinson.” The commander of the marines was beaming, enormous and almost blinding in his red coat. “Mr Coulson, the purser,” the man was the perfect image of a purser, but he looked competent and remarkably honest; “Mr Barton and Mr Parker.” The only two midshipmen currently on board; Barton was a master’s mate, old enough to be taking his examination for lieutenant soon, while Parker was several years younger. “Mr Hill, Mr Sitwell, and Mr Carter,” the gunner, carpenter and bosun, all appeared to be steady men, as well as could be told from a glance.

“I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” Steve spoke seriously. “Mr Stark, if you will have all hands piped aft, here is my commission.” He put a hand into his jacket and removed the piece of paper which had, just that morning, shifted his world. The lieutenant took it from him, and odd emotion just barely visible in the lines around his eyes and tension in his mouth. It was something other than simple duty, or nerves, or even resentment of a new commanding officer. Perhaps recognition of an old ship mate? Steve had no idea if Stark recollected him from the few months on the _Industrious_. The hint of unhappiness in his expression, however, suggested something more complex.

When he spoke, however, his voice was unchanged. “Mr Carter, all hands aft.” The shrieking of the whistles carried by the bosun and his mates echoed again throughout the ship, although all 130 of her complement were already present and attentive; observing the form regardless of actual current necessity, that ubiquitous facet of the navy. Steve found it steadying, as his heartbeat sped. Once all hands were present and hats off, Stark began to read in a strong voice.

“To Steven Rogers, hereby appointed Commander of His Majesty’s Sloop _Avenger_. By the right Honourable Admiral Nicholls, Admiral of the Blue and Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels employed in the Mediterranean Sea. You are hereby required and directed to immediately proceed on board the sloop _Avenger_ and take upon you the Charge and Command of Commander of her; willing and requiring all the Officers and Company belonging to the said Sloop to behave themselves in their several Employments with all due Respect and Obedience to you their Commander; and you likewise to observe as well the General Printed Instructions as what Orders and Directions you may from time to time receive from any your superior Officer for His Majesty’s Service. Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your Peril. And for so doing this shall be your Order.” And as simply as that, Steve Rogers assumed the responsibility for his ship and all the 130 souls aboard her.

That burden might have been staggering, had he a moment to contemplate it. It was perhaps just as well, then, that today of all days there wasn’t a moment to be lost. “Very well, then, Mr Stark,” he turned with a polite smile, “We can look over the ship.” The men dispersed as the officers gathered for the traditional tour.

Particularly given the short notice she had gotten, _Avenger_ was in a very fine state. Her yards perfectly braced, every visible rope in neatly coiled fakes and falls, the hands in their Sunday finery, and the coal in the galley whitewashed, she exhibited the held-breath perfection usual to a ship receiving a new commander. His overall impression was mixed; she had good bones, that was clear, and she could not have so rapidly attained such a formal presentation if she had been kept sloppy before. However, while the air of the ship was not one he could exactly object to, it was not one that he found comfortable. He had served mostly under traditional, even old-fashioned captains, whereas every sign on the _Avenger_ said that she was just the opposite. Steve had always worn his hat athwartships, in contrast to Stark’s, worn fore and aft. The gun decks were completely devoid of tubs for the slow match, which he would have considered indispensible, regardless of the newer flintlocks on the great guns.  And he was strongly conscious of relative informality on the part of the crew; no specific behavior or individual that he could point to, but a sense that the gulf between the men and the officers was less than generally found. While he had never been a firm proponent of the natural superiority of the commissioned officers over the enlisted men, a ship also required a proper respect for the command in order to function as an efficient fighting machine.

And in that was the center of his stirring misgivings. While there were many things he expected of his command, they all came back to being an effective weapon against the enemy. That meant a ship at peak physical condition, a taut crew, able to sail her and aim and fire her guns, and officers who knew their professions; it did not mean a ship who was so proud of her appearance that she was afraid to sully her decks, nor men who hesitated to follow orders, nor officers with strong dissenting opinions from his own. All these appeared to be possibilities on the _Avenger_. And almost all of it came back to his first lieutenant. On a brig, with only one other commissioned officer, the character and seamanship of the Premier was critical.

Well, Steve would have to continue these thoughts another time. And not all of what he saw boded ill; the guns looked well maintained and frequently used, the men were cheerful enough, and the other officers were, as far as he could tell, quietly competent.

They concluded the tour at the door to the great cabin. Ducking under the door, Steve glanced around. Although much smaller than the equivalents on a ship of the line or even a frigate, the pocket-sized dining room and sleeping cabin were more than any other naval officer would have. The wide sweep of windows across the stern of the ship kept the rooms from being claustrophobic, and Steve knew that he would appreciate his new privacy as soon as he had a moment to enjoy it. Turning to the officers behind him (filling the little passage past capacity), he smiled and said “She is in excellent condition. Thank you gentlemen.” They dispersed, only the lieutenant hanging back slightly. “Now, Mr Stark, I must report to the Admiral for our orders.”

There was a momentary flash of an expression on Stark’s face, as if whatever he’d expected Steve to say, that wasn’t it. “Yes, sir. I’ll order the boat crew ready.”

“Thank you. I anticipate that our orders may require us to sail shortly. Is the ship provisioned?”

This time Stark’s expression was a more familiar one; that of an officer whose commander had just asked for the difficult, if not the impossible. “We’ve only been in harbor a day, sir,” he replied. “We have provisions for eight weeks, excluding rum, but only water for three. We’re also a little low on gunpowder and shot. If I put all the men to work now,” with a sharp glace at Steve, as if he didn’t know perfectly well that taking away the usual half-day of Sunday rest would cause muttering, “We could have four more tons of water loaded by the first dog watch, which would let us catch the tide. We’d have to wait on the yard for the powder, though.”

Steve thought for a moment, nodded. “Begin loading the water now, and send a midshipman over to the yard. Cancel all shore leave for today.” Stark nodded, not looking pleased. Steve felt a spurt of irritation at his expression, which should have been better schooled. “Let it be known that the time shall be made up to the men,” he added sharply. “But we are here to work a ship, not enjoy ourselves in port.”

Stark stiffened in response, with a brief nod. “Yes, sir. I will go order the boat.”

As he turned, Steve thought of one more thing. “Oh, and Mr Stark, by the time we set sail, I want all the women ashore. We will not be a floating brothel.”

Stark didn’t even fully turn to face him, and Steve’s irritation grew. “Yes, sir. All women ashore.” He strode off, not waiting for another word from Steve.

Well, that could have been better. Steve paused a moment, willing his anger to settle. The last thing he needed was to let his frustration with his lieutenant spill over into his meeting with the Admiral. Some things, it seemed, didn’t change. Stark was still an arrogant, difficult and insubordinate officer. But there was nothing Steve could do to change that, he thought, as he resolved to figure out a way to maintain a cordial working relationship. It might not be easy, but he would do it. In the meantime, he had a meeting with the Admiral.


	2. Chapter 2

As he was rowed over to the flagship in his new barge, Steve forcibly turned his thoughts to the upcoming meeting. He was not entirely sure what to expect from the Admiral. He was almost certain that he owed his promotion to him; as a lieutenant without fortune or interest, Steve had often enough despaired of ever commanding his own ship. Even after the victory over the _Crâne Rogue_ and their desperate struggle back to port, the _Peggy_ desperately damaged and without a captain, her people sailing two ships and managing the prisoners that outnumbered them, he would never have thought that he’d be given one of the best ships a Commander could have. Some explanation came from the name on the top of the commission still tucked into his coat; Admiral Nicholls (known throughout the service as Old Fury, for the explosive lectures he gave to erring captains) was of as common birth as Steve, and sometimes showed a kindness for others who came up through the hawsehole. It was certainly hard enough for those without family name or interest to be promoted, much less get a plum like the _Avenger_. And for those who spent their first years at sea as a common seaman, only promoted to the quarterdeck by the kindness of their captain, it was even more difficult.

So perhaps Steve could hope for kindness from the Admiral. He was not known as Fury for nothing, however, and as the barge crawled across the harbor, Steve found himself counting over every minute that he could have saved that morning. The trip to tailor for the epaulette was unavoidable, but perhaps if he had parted with another guinea it would have been sewn more quickly. The walk around the square before going to the harbor was inexcusable, aside from the fact that he needed a moment to steady his breath and his hands; but that was hardly an defense he could give to the Admiral. It would have been abominably rude to hurry over the tour of the ship, but maybe he should have done so. Was the situation urgent enough that he should have risked alienating his officers for the sake of speed? The note with his commission had not be particularly forthcoming; he was to take command of the _Avenger_ and then report directly to the flagship _Defender_ for his orders, taking care not to lose time along the way. He consoled himself with the thought that they could not have possibly caught the last tide, and he had already put in place preparations for departure.

As they approached the flagship hailed them; “What boat?” His coxin’s reply of “ _Avenger_ ,” brought him out of his reverie. For the first time, he had been announced by the name of his ship. He absently grasped the sideropes handed to him and swung himself aboard. He was saluted by the officer of the watch, and plucked his own hat off before the admiral appeared in the hatch. He was a tall, imposing figure in his dark blue coat. The patch over one eye, a souvenir of the Glorious First of June, did nothing to reduce the force of his glare, which rather seemed concentrated. Steve felt himself stiffening under that look, which was openly calculating.

“Captain Rogers. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.” By now, Steve felt sure that his new plum was the work of the Admiral. There would no coasting along, however, easy under the benevolent eye of a complacent admiral; if Old Fury smiled on an officer, it was undoubtedly for his own reasons, and he was almost openly assessing is Steve was measuring up to his expectations.

“You have made good time in taking command. Good. I have work for you,” Nicholls continued, gesturing towards his cabin as Steve followed him in. Once they were both seated, Nicholls behind his desk and Steve in a distinctly too-small chair facing it, he continued. “It’s not a long cruise, but it needs to be done now, and the _Avenger_ is just the ship for it. We have rather sensitive documents which need to be delivered to the Bey of Halifa, documents that we do not want the resident French delegation to be aware of. We can’t just send a courier. So we have a small convoy for you to escort there—merchants, it can’t be helped, but we kept it small and wouldn’t let any real slugs in. You’ll proceed to Halifa with all due speed. Now, I haven’t the time to discuss the details of the transfer with you; your contacts and the plan will be in your sealed orders, to be opened at the coordinates specified. Once you’ve completed your business in Halifa, you have a two-week cruise in those waters.” He kept his eye on Steve as he talked, no doubt carefully cataloging every thought that crossed his face. The moment Steve opened his mouth he forestalled him. “My secretary is already drawing your orders up in writing. I know I don’t have to tell you, Captain Rogers, that the cooperation of these little potentates and the like is essential to our efforts in the region. The information we have for the Bey, however, is worthless the moment the French know he has it; secrecy must be your watchword. If you have to change your plans to avoid detection, do so. I trust in your discretion. Any questions?”

Steve considered carefully for a moment. “No, sir.” It was not the sort of work he would have asked for; the intelligence business was not to his taste. A straightforward chase or battle was more honorable in every sense of the word, and avoided sneaking, the hint of the informer or the spy. Such efforts were necessary, however, and questioning his order was out of the question. If it was for the good of the service he would follow whatever orders he was given. The cruise after was a pleasant addition as well; though not long, it gave them a much higher chance to a prize, which would unquestionably please his new command. Although he carefully kept his expression to the attentive respect due to a superior officer, he was almost certain that Fury knew his thoughts, and was perhaps amused by them.

  
“Oh, and Captain Rogers. Given the sensitive nature of the mission, your officers are not to know the full details. As far as they are aware, you are merely escorting a convoy. Now, the merchants are ready to sail; how soon can you be fit for sea?”

More at home on questions of seamanship, Steve relaxed slightly as he answered. “We have provisions for eight weeks, and will have water for the same by tonight. We’re low on powder and shot, but with the cooperation of the yard we could be ready to sail on the tide.”

The admiral’s face relaxed into faint approval. “Very good, Captain. The yard will be waiting on your word, and the merchants will be ready to sail on the tide. Tread carefully in Halifa, and do not give yourselves away to the French. See my secretary for your written orders.”

Steve collected his two envelopes, one sealed with coordinates written neatly on it and called for his boat, deep in thought as he returned to his (the thought still caused a ripple of delight despite his distraction) command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know it's been approximately forever and this isn't a very long chapter. Too much going on, and I'm a slow writer, but I hope to have more in the next week or so. I'm not promising that there won't be more long gaps at some point, though.


	3. Chapter 3

The moment the captain stepped off the ship, the entire company finally breathed. Mr. Stark, watching from the quarterdeck, wished that he could let the moment stand. The officers and crew had been working with scarcely a pause since their last mission and subsequent refit. A few days in port had seemed the least of their just reward, and Tony did not want to be the one to tell them they couldn’t have it. There was no justice in the service, and wasn’t that the truth. A new promoted captain, flush with the importance of his first command, taking the admiral’s rote strictures of speed to heart, and leaving Tony to see the consequences through. He knew his inner monolog was perhaps unfair, but couldn’t find the energy to revise it; without a commander, the weight of the refit had rested squarely on his shoulders, and he was perhaps the most exhausted on the weary ship. The efforts of the morning had taken what he thought was the very last of his energy. He knew very well the level of perfection that was absolutely required to welcome a new captain, and he was determined that the _Avenger_ not embarrass herself. He had driven the crew hard, touching up the paint, finding the gold leaf (and when he figured out what proud bugger had nearly emptied the town’s supply he’d give him an earful), scrubbing the already clean deck and making all shipshape. The frantic work, begun early that morning but given urgency with Captain Roger’s message, had produced a barely acceptable façade. As they’d walked over the ship the voice in Tony’s mind that spoke with Captain Stane’s tones noted every line out of place, every spot on the deck, the smudged fingerprint on the brass forechaser and (worse) on the polished ship’s bell. Captain Rogers had been gracious enough not to comment or even give a pointed look, no doubt storing up his remarks for another time. Tony was too tired to muster more than a faint apprehension of that point, and indignation on the behalf of the crew, who, in far too little time, had produced a mostly-perfect ship.

Now was not the time to give in to exhaustion, however. A moment to breathe, and then he was calling the officers over to him. “We are to be ready to sail on the tide.” A faintly disbelieving look passed across the faces in front of him, and he allowed himself to roll his eyes with them before he continued. “Shore leave is cancelled. Mr. Banner, if you will take two boats to continue watering, we need at least four more tons. Mr. Parker, take the pinnace and eight men over to the yard, they owe us two month’s worth of powder and shot. While they’re dithering about that, head over to Long’s and buy ten barrels of large red grain and five fine white powder, and then go back to the yard for their stuff.” He fished some bills out as he spoke and passed them to the younger midshipman. “That will satisfy Long’s, and the yard while you’re at it.”

Colonel Odinson spoke up as he finished. “My marines are better rested and fresher; allow them to help with the watering.”

Tony nodded acknowledgement. “Thank you, yes. Mr. Banner, take a contingent of the marines for the heavy lifting. Mr. Barton, you will oversee stowing the barrels. Oh, and the Captain wishes for all the women to be ashore before we sail.” He was now grateful that he’d sent Christine home last night, with a pocketful of guineas; at least he could give the order with a straight face. “Mr. Barton, you will see to it after the water is stowed.” None of the officers looked pleased with that; Tony knew perfectly well that combined with the cut shore leave it would build resentment among the men.

The whole thing could have been handled so much better, if only Rogers had thought. If Tony had been taking command. . . but that was a train of thought better not followed. Too many years of experience had taught Tony that it could only be more frustrating to consider how he would manage his imaginary command. Unhealthy thoughts had never stopped him before, however, and didn’t this time either. It would be beyond unreasonable for the admiral to expect a ship in the same state as the _Avenger_ to sail this evening. Fury might still have intended that; but unless his orders explicitly stated so, a small creative misunderstanding could have prevented it entirely. If Rogers had only asked him about the state of the ship, he could have represented to him the inadvisability of setting sail so soon. Of course, he hadn’t—a typical unimaginative officer, Tony assumed, willing to follow any unreasonable order to curry favor with his commanding officer, regardless of the wisdom of the order. The sort of officer, in point, who was promoted to Commander.

He blinked his distracted thoughts away to focus again on officers in front of him. “Thank you, gentlemen.” For a moment they teetered on the edge of propriety, just waiting for the first one to dare a comment; but the deeply ingrained respect for the quarterdeck prevailed, and they dispersed with merely nods. “Jarvis!” he summoned the gunroom steward with a yell. “More coffee on deck.”

*****

The hour before the Captain’s return was exactly what Tony had anticipated; muttering and aggrieved glances from the men, who lingered at their tasks. It was not the time to chivvy them to action, but he had no choice if they were to make the tide. He kept a careful ear out—he was never again going to dismiss the lower deck’s complaints as mere talk. These didn’t yet contain enough resentment to really concern him, although if matters continued as they began, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

As he moved around the deck directing sailors storing water, removing women, and completing the hundred other small tasks necessary, he kept an eye on the flagship, noting the moment that the gig pulled away and back towards the _Avenger_. She was pulling for the port side, at least, which meant that they were spared another formal reception for the day. Tony saluted as Captain Rogers swung himself up the side like a boy, noting the oilcloth packet that no doubt contained their orders. He took in the busy men on the deck, eyes narrowing slightly. Tony’s spine stiffened instantly in response; how dare Rogers sneer at his crew? They wouldn’t be moving slowly if they weren’t exhausted by their breakneck refit, followed by the frantic preparations for Rogers’s own arrival and subsequent orders. Under the circumstances, they were moving briskly.

He knew that he expression, as Rogers turned towards him, was not what it should have been, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. He didn’t comment, just gestured towards the packet he carried. “Our orders, Mr. Stark,” he said. His voice was pitched loudly enough to be heard across half the deck; under other circumstances, Tony might have been pleased with how he ensured that the information would informally disseminate quickly throughout the ship. “We are to escort a convoy of merchantmen to Halifa. We leave with the tide.”

Tony knew that his “Yes, sir,” was bitten off too sharply. He was, however, furious. A convoy? Their breakneck pace for the last two weeks, this final day, was so that they could shepherd a clutch of struggling merchant slugs to a port only a week distant, so far removed from the busy trading routes that they were highly unlikely to see any action the entire time? Fury must have had half a dozen sloops that could serve as well, why the hell had he saddled the _Avenger_ with it? And why the hell couldn’t they wait at least a day? It was rare enough the convoys left promptly even when there was no reason to delay, rushing to catch the evening tide was unnecessary. Somewhere in the back of his brain he registered something as _not right_. Any supposition was superseded, however, by the presence of his captain, and urgent work to be done. “If you will excuse me sir, I must see to the stowing of the powder.” A nod from Rogers and he escaped across the deck to where his expression would be less likely to betray him. They would be ready for the tide if he killed himself getting them there.


End file.
